


Off The Hook

by leashy_bebes



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, battle fic, deaths of minor unnamed characters, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-07
Updated: 2011-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-27 01:14:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/289955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leashy_bebes/pseuds/leashy_bebes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gwaine thinks about battles and freedom and loyalty. But mainly he thinks about Merlin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Off The Hook

**Author's Note:**

> Written a while ago for gwaine_quest on LJ from the following prompt: "I remember you when, looking like a teenager/how you have become a man with all the power/running the moon aground/who would ever have thought?" (Rufus Wainwright: Off the Hook)

When the sun is falling, people light torches through the encampment. The flickering golds and reds make everything look summery and festive, warm and calm, as though they're not waiting to do battle. Gwaine has heard people say that the waiting is the worst part. It's nonsense, of course. The worst part is quite clearly the blood, and the fear, and scrambling for your life without a shred of dignity. It comes in every battle, no matter how glorious the songs and tales told afterward might be.

This will be their first real test as Arthur's men, not just Camelot's, and Gwaine can tell that their new king is anxious. King Olaf was the first of Uther's old allies to turn against Arthur, but he will not be the last. And Gwaine is sure that somewhere in the darkness, the ageing but stubborn old king will be going through the same motions as Arthur – checking and rechecking the defences, speaking to his men, assuring them of victory.

Gwaine learned at a young age that it is just as easy to end up on one side of a battle as it is the other. An accident of birth, a long-nurtured grudge, or even something so simple as turning left instead of right at some long-forgotten crossroad. Gwaine wonders, now and then, what his life would have become if he hadn't been in that particular tavern on the day Merlin and Arthur blundered in. He certainly wouldn't be fighting Camelot's battles if he hadn't met them. He wouldn't have friends he's glad to fight alongside, and he wouldn't have a leader worth believing in (and it's still hard to think that about the princess without a shred of irony).

Arthur's tent, large but not ridiculously grand, is in the centre of their encampment. They have chosen to ride out and meet Olaf's forces head on. It's a show of strength, confidence, and it places the battle well away from Camelot, a tactic of which Gwaine privately approves. Real war has none of the romance of wandering errantry, fighting only when a charming smile wouldn't win the day, and there is no cause to bring real war to the doorsteps of the city, to the women and children there. Beyond the tent's thick canvas walls Gwaine can hear men moving, the quiet rasp of weapons being honed, a voice raised in lilting song.

Inside, Arthur's knights of the round table are waiting to hear what he has to say. He looks around at them, from face to face, and Gwaine reflects that really, he needn't say anything. He has their loyalty, and he has their trust too.

"This is our first test," Arthur says quietly. "Win this, and we win allies, respect, time. Everything we need. Lose, and the next test will be harder still."

He pauses and looks around at them all, and tells them, "I'm proud of every one of you, honoured to fight alongside you."

Gwaine looks around him and thinks, _yes_. He feels the same about everybody in this tent. Even the princess.

"Leon, Merlin," Arthur says. "I'd like you with me when I address the other men. The rest of you do a quick check on the sentries, and then we should all try to get some sleep."

"Wait," Merlin says, as Gwaine, Lancelot, Elyan and Percival turn to leave. Merlin lifts a bag onto his lap and pulls out several delicate-looking orbs, each lit with a different coloured dim glow. "Give these to the scouts," Merlin tells them. "And remember what colour you gave to which of them. If they see anyone they shouldn't, all they have to do is smash it."

"And then what?" Lancelot asks.

"Trust me, you'll know if it happens," Merlin assures him.

He gives Gwaine a little smile as he hands over the orbs and Gwaine nods to him. He knows Merlin and Arthur have been planning something, some master-stroke with Merlin's magic that will win the day. But they've been doing it in that way they have, secret and private, oblivious to the rest of the world. Gwaine can't read anything from Merlin's face, which is worrying in itself. He wants to say or do something but there isn't the time. Merlin just twitches a half-smile at him and follows Arthur out of the tent.  


\---

 

Gwaine is the last of the knights to return, and when he rides into the encampment alone it gives him a chance to assess the mood. The men are quiet around small, well-hidden fires, and there is a strange calm underlying the usual tightly-leashed apprehension. These are men who trust their leader. And trust their knights, Gwaine thinks as he rides past the foot soldiers, stopping to chat to those he knows best.

The knights are stationed in a camp-within-the-camp, tents spread in a rough half-circle around Arthur's in the middle. And Gwaine notes with a sense of pride for his friend that Merlin's tent, to the side of Arthur's, is just as fine as the King's. It didn't make sense to Gwaine at first, the way Merlin sometimes looked at Arthur like he was willing the man to see something more in him. But Arthur was a prince, and Gwaine couldn't understand why Merlin would even think Arthur capable of seeing more than a servant. But when he'd realised about the magic – realised, not been told – it made sense. Suddenly one day Merlin having magic seemed a fairly plausible explanation for an awful lot of things.

Not long after that, Merlin told Arthur, and Gwaine was...not jealous, that's the wrong word. But he did sometimes wonder if his opinion mattered that much less than Arthur's that he didn't warrant actually being _told_. To this day, he hopes it's just that Merlin felt, as Gwaine does himself, that sometimes they don't need words. Whatever the reasons, whoever's opinion he valued most, Merlin's magic is not a secret anymore, and Arthur – _finally_ – sees what it is he's got. Gwaine can't be anything other than pleased for his friend.

There is a light shining in Merlin's tent and once Gwaine has dealt with his horse (he refuses to have a squire, because he is perfectly capable of doing things himself, and for once Arthur agreed, saying that Gwaine's influence on the youth of Camelot should be limited to drunken songs when he's ejected from various taverns) he makes his way over. At least he has the excuse of needing to tell Merlin which globe he gave to which sentry. Still, Gwaine pauses outside the tent. Once, he would have burst into Merlin's personal space without a second thought, and relished it too. Once, Merlin wasn't the court sorcerer. Now, Gwaine clears his throat and waits for Merlin to ask,

"Yes?"

"It's me," he says.

"Come in," Merlin calls, and he lifts the tent flap aside to usher Gwaine in.

"Blue to the north-east, green due north," Gwaine says.

"What? Oh! Oh, of course. Brilliant, well done."

"I looked for you earlier," Gwaine says once he's settled next to Merlin. "When we arrived."

Merlin shrugs and says, "Arthur," as though that should explain everything. "Going over plans and the like."

He sounds bleak about it and Gwaine has to remind himself that while Merlin's far from a coward, he's not a fighter either, not like the rest of them. Strategising comes naturally to Arthur, and he thrives on it. It seems to drain Merlin, though. Gwaine doesn't know exactly what they've been cooking up in private moments, but it's obviously weighing on Merlin.

Gwaine's aware that Merlin has done some violent things in protection of the crown, and he's sure there's plenty more that he doesn't know about, but it's still hard to imagine _Merlin_ – friendly, lovable, smiling Merlin, who fits so well into the crook of Gwaine's arm – in the midst of a battlefield. The light from the lantern casts shadows upward onto Merlin's face. Gwaine takes a knife out of his boot, sets about idly sharpening it.

Gwaine looks up at Merlin, finds him watching curiously, obviously sensing that Gwaine wants to say something. He wants to say a lot of things but he's not entirely sure what so he settles on, "When the battle is joined – "

Merlin makes a little noise like he's biting down on exasperation, but when Gwaine flicks his eyes up to Merlin's face again he looks carefully neutral.

"Arthur wants me out on the flank with Percival, but Lancelot is going to stick with you."

Merlin frowns. "Arthur never said – "

"Yes, well. He doesn't need to know everything."

"Well," Merlin says, his voice deliberately light. " _Technically_ , being the king and everything, he sort of does."

Gwaine sets his knife down and looks at Merlin seriously. "Do what you have to do but keep Lancelot in your line of sight, yes? For me."

Merlin's face softens. "You do realise I don't need protecting?"

"We're your friends, Merlin. Let us try anyway."

He tuts. "You knights. Always the heroes."

He's joking but Gwaine's really not when he says, "Everybody needs a champion."

Merlin actually blushes and for a moment it's just, _just_ like the old days. It could be the two of them, alone in the woods, off to stop Arthur getting himself killed.

"And you're mine, are you?"

Gwaine smiles at him and means to say, _yes, obviously, always, haven't you worked that out yet?_

And then a bright blue light rips through the tent, the same colour as the globe Gwaine had given to the second scout he'd checked on. Merlin's already scrambling to his feet by the time Gwaine's opened his mouth to ask what's wrong.

"Arthur!" Merlin shouts, darting out of the tent. "They're coming. North east."

Gwaine's hard on his heels and he hears Arthur say, " _Now_? Dawn is still an hour or more away, are they _mad_?"

"Puts us at just as much of a disadvantage," Gwaine comments as the camp is quickly roused, men taking up their positions.

He has time to see Merlin pulling a cuirass out of Arthur's hands and saying, "Let me help – don't be stupid, let me _help_ – "

Gwaine only has time to exchange a quick glance with Merlin before he runs for his horse. Merlin's smile is grim, his eyes hard.

 

\---

 

The battle rages in the flickering light of the fires they were forced to stoke higher. Gwaine goes to that other place inside his mind, the smooth cause and effect, the blazing instincts of war. At first Camelot's forces gain the upper hand easily. They are prepared, albeit hastily, for the intruders, but their advantage doesn't last once the camp has been breached. Then it's all milling confusion, a press of desperate bodies seeking only survival.

He finds himself in a tight spot with Lancelot at one point and they fight grimly, back to back.

"You were supposed to stick with Merlin!" Gwaine yells.

"Got separated," Lancelot says as they move together.

Gwaine knows his anger is misplaced – it happens, of course it does, because tactics be damned, once battle is drawn, each man's life is reduced to a succession of moments to be endured. But when he thinks of Merlin like that, somewhere in the middle of all this mess, he can't help himself. He uses it, channels anger and protectiveness and blind fear into his fight.

"Duck!" he yells as an approaching soldier swings a mace. They duck together, around each other, and come up fighting, no matter that they could be overwhelmed any second – they've managed to get themselves away from the main body of the Camelot's forces, stuck in a corner. Then Gwaine hears the cry – _rally to Sirs Lancelot and Gwaine!_ – and he finds himself on a fresh horse with room to breathe again. For a moment.

Dawn's cold grey fingers creep over the sky and above savage war cries and terrified screams, Gwaine hears Arthur's voice booming out _now, Merlin! Now, do it now!_ It could cost him his life but Gwaine fights his way to a patch of higher ground and looks around feverishly for Merlin. Before he can lay eyes on him, the sky to the north-east explodes into fire, blotting out the feeble light of dawn.

Distracted as he is, Gwaine allows someone to get a blow into his ribs. His armour deflects the worst of it but rage flares up hot inside him and he turns, snarls and lashes out, a hot spray of blood seeming to come from the blade itself there's so little resistance from the man's neck – _boy_ , Gwaine thinks, forcing himself to look, _a_ _boy_ , _I doubt he shaves twice a week_. The boy slumps to his knees, his sword falling from numb fingers and he says, "But I – but – "

There's a hollow, lazy-sounding boom an instant later and many of Olaf's men fall to their knees. Gwaine thinks it's simple disbelief at first – the raging fire has cut off their retreat altogether – until he sees how many of them are clawing at their chests, trying to drag armour away from their bodies and _screaming_.

Among it all he finally catches sight of Merlin, palms turned up towards the sky, head tipped back, eyes gold. Raw power seems to make the very air shimmer around him. Arthur is next to him, then behind him, darting this way and that, taking down man after man as they approach, obviously having realised Merlin is the source of their power. Arthur has lost his helmet and there is blood in his golden hair, and staining mighty Excalibur. Merlin is pale and flawless next to him and together they look like something from the tales that will undoubtedly be told about their deeds in the years to come.

Gwaine's ears are ringing but through the din he hears 'Camelot! To the king!' He's long since lost his horse so he slogs on foot through mud and blood towards the first red cloak he sees. It turns out to be Elyan, one wounded arm held gingerly across his chest. Elyan flashes him a slightly mad grin and they cut a path through disorganised, shocked enemy troops until they join the mass of knights and foot soldiers surrounding Arthur.

Whatever pain descended upon Olaf's men isn't killing them, and it even seems to be dissipating, at least long enough for them to mount one last stand. It's useless and they know it. They still fight with grim determination, more minded to do damage to Camelot's forces than to actually overcome them. It's only a brief skirmish.

Then there's some confusion while what's left of the opposing army locates their most senior man and sends the white-faced, blood-stained knight to meet with Arthur. With the light of battle still in his eyes Arthur lays out the terms of peace and gives the man a fresh horse, sending him to rally his comrades and ride back to their vanquished king.

 

\---

 

As Olaf's men ride away, the forces of Camelot gather around their king. Arthur looks like the battle has aged him a good handful of years, but he looks noble and every inch their king as he stands on the same high ground Gwaine had scrambled towards earlier, addressing them.

"You all fought bravely today," Arthur says simply. "You showed courage, honour and mercy when needed. I am proud of you."

Arthur doesn't take his eyes off Merlin while he talks, and Merlin doesn't lift his gaze from the ground. Merlin looks fragile, insubstantial. There are dark circles under his eyes that weren't there earlier, and his usual pallor is even more pronounced. Gwaine's seen Merlin sick before, and this is what he looked like – brittle and as though he was holding pain at a distance by force of will alone. Gwaine wonders if he picked up an injury. Everything in him is itching to check, to pull Merlin towards him and run his hands over Merlin's arms, chest, throat, make sure he's okay. Once he wouldn't have hesitated.

Finally looking away from Merlin, Arthur says more; kind words, well-intentioned words, about the men they lost today, about the honour that will be afforded to them all.

Sometimes the knighthood is exactly what Gwaine feared it would be – standing around, pretending to value some aristocrat's opinion more than he values his own. Gwaine knows he has changed, a lot. But it would take so little to be that man again, that wandering man who was maybe sometimes lonely, cold, or hungry, but never felt like _this_. Gwaine has packed to leave Camelot exactly twice. The first time he made it as far as the river beyond the city before he allowed himself to imagine Merlin's disappointment and turned his horse around. The second time he didn't even make it out of his chambers. He hasn't tried again since but he wants to now.

He wants to get Merlin alone and say _please, I love you, please, we should be laughing in the sunlight, kissing under the stars, anything you want, just not this, not here, not for you._ Merlin wouldn't go in a million years and Gwaine knows it. It's the only reason he's never asked.

When Arthur has finished he sends some men to secure the perimeter of the camp, drawing the northern edge away from the fire that raged earlier. To others fall the task of attending to the dead, readying them for their last journey home. Others are sent to eat, or to sleep. Arthur takes one look at Gwaine and tells him to get some rest. Gwaine lost sight of Merlin as soon as people began to mill about, seeing to their tasks, and he can only blame that, the frustration of not seeing, hearing, feeling for himself that Merlin is alright, for the anger that roars up inside him. He doesn't even realise he's got his hand on his sword hilt until Arthur gives him a cold, warning look and Percival pulls him away.

"What's wrong with you?" Percival hisses. Gwaine tries to shake him off but it's like trying to shake off a brick wall. Percival marches him into the shade and pushes him down to the ground. "Get some sleep, Gwaine."

Gwaine knows he should be exhausted and while his body is tired, he can't stop his mind racing so he just sits, looking at his knotted fingers.

The noises of the camp clatter on around him.

 

\---

 

He does catch an hour or so of sleep in the end, for want of anything else to do. The sun on his face stirs him first and then he hears footsteps approaching. Somehow he knows it's Merlin before he opens his eyes. A shadow falls across him and Gwaine looks up.

"Hello."

Merlin crouches down next to him and hands him a water skin. "Hi."

Gwaine takes a quick drink, using the opportunity to look more closely at Merlin. There's a bandage on his arm, neatly tied off. Gwaine touches his fingers to it gingerly and asks, "What – "

"Just a cut," Merlin tells him. "See? Told you I didn't need looking after." With a brave, lopsided smile he goes on, "You look worse than I feel, anyway."

"Nothing serious," Gwaine says with a shrug.

"I have to go," Merlin tells him. "Arthur's meeting with King Olaf soon."

Gwaine nods. "Of course." But he keeps a gentle hold on Merlin's wrist.

"Percival and Elyan are riding back now with some of the foot soldiers and the – the dead," Merlin tells him and his voice is _almost_ steady. "There's food prepared, you should eat."

"We ride in the morning?"

Merlin nods. "Arthur wants you and Lancelot to keep an eye on things while we're gone. He's had to intervene three times already, fights and drunkenness."

Gwaine privately thinks that drunkenness is a perfectly sensible state to be aiming for right now, but he nods. Reluctantly, he lets go of Merlin's wrist and watches him walk away. He can hear muted talk, the kind of hush that comes when men are passing around the ale with a determination that makes conversation secondary.

Tempted though he is to join them, Gwaine gets stiffly to his feet and moves to seek out Lancelot.

 

\---

 

The sun is starting to dip lower in the sky by the time Arthur, Merlin and Leon return. They draw their horses to a halt and exchange a few words before Merlin and Leon ride on into the thick of the camp, Arthur detouring over to Gwaine.

"Alright?" Arthur asks, sounding almost wary.

Gwaine nods. "Sire."

Arthur bites off a sigh and says, "You and Lancelot can stand down for the night, we have the watches covered."

In spite of himself, Gwaine feels bad. It is not Arthur's fault, not really. To hear Merlin tell it, Arthur is just as caught up in destiny's plans as Merlin is himself, and _that's_ what really bothers Gwaine. He spent so long obsessed with his own freedom, guarding it jealously and possessively, that it twists something inside him to think of his friend's life set on a path not entirely of his own choosing. Arthur is just the most obvious symbol of that, and usually Gwaine has enough about him not to let it interfere in his dealings with Arthur. Because he is a good man, a fine leader, worth serving under, and Gwaine knows the prospect of this battle and others like it have played on Arthur's mind for a long time.

"Arthur," he says. "Well done."

Arthur nods a bit stiffly and Gwaine expects him to turn away. Instead he waits a moment, not quite looking at Gwaine and then says, "I will always do all I can to protect him."

Gwaine can't believe he's such an open book to _Arthur_ of all people, who approaches affection in the same regimented way he approaches battle – all tactics and opportune moments and that rot.

"Likewise. Arthur, I – earlier – "

"It's forgotten," Arthur promises. "Heat of battle."

Gwaine nods.

"Still a few formalities to sort through," Arthur tells him. "But tonight should be restful, for all of us."

"Looking forward to it already."

Arthur rides on and Gwaine feels oddly chastened even though Arthur had been positively pleasant. With a sigh he plucks at his sweat and blood-stained shirt. He's long since dealt with his armour, took advantage of the day's lull to knock out dents and put the edge back on his sword. He could use a wash though, and thinks longingly of a hot bath. He'll make do with the stream at the southern edge of the camp.

By the time he gets back the fires have been built up again and Gwaine picks his way through the mostly quiet men, pausing now and then to talk to those he knows. Closer to the centre of the camp he finds another small fire, Lancelot and Leon sitting on either side of it, obviously waiting for him. Lancelot waves his hand in greeting and Gwaine joins them, nodding gratefully when Leon hands him a wineskin. They pass it around among themselves and Gwaine can feel the last lingering anger and readiness to fight left over from the battle waning.

There are other knights of course, others with a seat at the round table, but the five of them tend to gravitate towards each other. If not for the lack of Percival and Elyan, they could be back all those years ago, six young men and one old one trying to retake a citadel. Arthur and Merlin are sitting nearby, at another small fire. Merlin still looks tired and drawn but at least he is close by, at least he is safe. Gwaine feels himself relax by degrees and he lets himself be drawn into conversation. They're all deliberately casual, trading neutral stories of childhood or, in Lancelot and Gwaine's case, of adventures on the road. They don't talk about anything that could draw the discussion back to the battle, to anything too serious.

When the sky is starting to darken a movement catches Gwaine's eye and he looks over to see Merlin standing. Arthur catches his wrist and they exchange earnest words before Merlin shakes his head and steps away from the fire. It takes Gwaine all of two heartbeats to make up his mind. Ignoring Lancelot's quizzical look, Gwaine hands back the wine skin and gets to his feet. He doesn't mean to catch Arthur's eye before he leaves but when he does, he finds only approval.

He heads in the same direction as Merlin and soon catches sight of him. He's sticking to the shadows, avoiding the little clusters of men and their fires. Gwaine can't say exactly why he doesn't call out to Merlin. He wants to. Much as he's worried about Merlin, in Gwaine's most secret, selfish heart, he just wants his friend. But the frustrating glimpses of Merlin he's caught through the day are enough for concern to overwhelm selfish desires. If Merlin needs to be alone, Gwaine will honour that, but he is not about to leave his friend unprotected, not when he's walking gingerly, like a man with old injuries.

Gwaine remembers the day he met Merlin, misses that boy and his easy smile. While Merlin is the same underneath, when he can allow himself to be, Camelot has changed them both so much. Gwaine has all the responsibilities of a knight, as well as the additional ones he takes upon himself, determined to protect his friend. But Merlin... He and Arthur are the most powerful men in all the land. Merlin is right at the centre of the court, and Gwaine thinks that if it wasn't for Merlin's loyalty, proved again and again, Arthur would have no choice but to fear him. Instead Merlin gives and gives and gives of himself, all for Camelot's benefit.

Gwaine has wondered before, what the magic costs him. He's seen Merlin tired after working great magics, but he's also seen him...different. Worn thin. He doesn't know how to describe it other than to think that Merlin _is_ magic, has it singing through his bones and muscles and blood and when he expends it so dramatically, it seems to leave him less than he was. Hollow. Fragile.

Ahead, there's a larger than average circle of soldiers around a fire. They're all well on their way to drunk, and have passed into the stage of seeing or imagining glory in the battle, swapping stories of their courage and daring in the face of the other side's brutality.

"My God, did you _see_ it?" someone is saying, all boyish enthusiasm. "That fire! I've never seen anything like it!"

Merlin seems to shrink into himself, and he quickens his pace, passing the men quickly. Gwaine often wishes he'd found the time or the words to tell Merlin in what esteem he holds him before the magic became public knowledge. Back when they were just two men who stumbled into each other's lives and brightened them a little. Because even then, even without knowing that, Gwaine knew Merlin was worth the effort. Worth any effort at all. On bad days, days like today where Merlin pastes on a familiar smile even though he looks like he's holding himself together by the finest of threads, Gwaine feels fiercely resentful of those who sing the praises of Merlin's magic, as though he's already a legend, as though there's no man to it at all, only the deed.

Gwaine follows Merlin a long way, through trees and meandering little paths. Merlin walks slowly but he seems purposeful, seems to know where he's going. Gwaine follows carefully, keeping his distance, thinking about power and sacrifice. Eventually Merlin breaks through the line of trees and heads towards a lake. The last scraps of a blue sky are just visible away over the hills. The feet of those hills, and the lake itself, are all wreathed in mist and the whole area has an eerie quiet to it.

Once when Merlin was drunk, he told Gwaine a story about a pretty girl who lived in a lake. Gwaine knows it can't be _this_ lake, but there has always been something in Merlin's eyes when Gwaine has seen him near large bodies of water. As though he's hungry and lonely and sad all at once. There's a small wooden landing stage jutting out into the water and Merlin walks to the end of it before he drops to sit on the edge. From his spot in the trees, still mostly hidden, Gwaine watches as Merlin sits in silence, his shoulders slumped and his head down.

 _It's not fair,_ Gwaine thinks uselessly. It's not fair that someone like Merlin, who seems to just burst, _overflow_ with love, should be made to look like this - small and alone and defeated, even in victory. Gwaine has met the servants of powerful men before, and by and large they're as vexing as their masters. Men who take pride in their servitude because it brings them near to a glory that will never be theirs. Merlin was never like that, never sneered and smarmed his way through life, trading on his master's name. Gwaine is willing to bet that before Merlin, the manservant to the prince was the smuggest, most puffed up servant in the whole of Camelot, drunk on second-hand power. Merlin never seemed to care about power, not how much Arthur had, nor how little he had himself, and yet here he is with the running of a kingdom on his shoulders. People openly call him and Arthur both the masters of Albion, and many secretly question who is first among them.

Gwaine would give anything for Merlin not to bear those burdens. He knows he should probably stay where he is, just sit and wait until Merlin turns to head back. He should allow his friend the time and space he so clearly wants right now. But instead he approaches Merlin cautiously, slowly, making sure Merlin hears him coming. He doesn't look around, though.

"Merlin?" Gwaine asks, once he's close.

"Can't get a moment's peace, can I?" Merlin asks, but he doesn't sound annoyed. His voice is thick.

"With me around?" Gwaine says, forcing a laugh. "Not a chance. Mind if I sit?"

Merlin shrugs and waves a hand as if to say _no skin off my nose_ and Gwaine sits down next to him, looking down into the water, already dark and cool where the sun's light has abandoned it.

"Were you hurt?" Merlin asks, and Gwaine shakes his head quickly.

"More worried about you," he admits.

"Me?" Merlin asks with a small, forced sounding laugh. "In case you didn't notice I had the _king of Camelot_ darting around me like a hyperactive gnat with a very big sword. I was never in any danger."

 _Not what I meant_ , Gwaine thinks. A soft breeze blows across the lake and while Gwaine turns his face into its freshness happily, he sees Merlin shiver.

"Take my jacket," Gwaine says, shrugging it off.

Merlin glares at him. "I'm not a girl, Gwaine."

"I know," Gwaine agrees easily. "Girls have more meat on their bones. Take it, Merlin."

He takes the jacket without further complaint and wraps himself in it. Gwaine looks at him openly for the first time since he arrived, looking Merlin up and down, taking in his appearance carefully. The years have been kind to Merlin, but his duties have not. He's has the same fey handsomeness that caught Gwaine's imagination years ago, but he carries himself differently now. It's an indefinable change and Gwaine is sure a man who'd spent less time observing Merlin wouldn't notice at all. It's in the slope of his shoulders, the tense line of his neck.

Gwaine doesn't say anything for a while, just works a long splinter of wood loose from the jetty and rolls it between his thumb and forefinger before flicking it into the water, watching the little splash it makes. He's not sure whether it's his own silence that finally makes Merlin speak, or whether he just can't hold the words in any longer.

"I – " he says abruptly, and a tear tracks its way down his cheek. He brushes it away angrily, but more follow. "What I did – " he tries again, looking down at his shaking hands as if he doesn't recognise them.

"Merlin."

"I didn't even see their faces," Merlin says, sounding anguished. "The men I – I killed – I swore I'd always remember every single person who died at my hands and I _have_ , but I didn't even – "

Gwaine was fifteen when he first killed a man. He was terrified, probably crying, and he did it in defence of his life, and maybe other things too. He can still remember the man's bearded face, the stench of liquor on his breath, the cold squirming of fear, and the terrible certainty when his knife slide home and the man jerked against him. It was so _easy_. That was the first night Gwaine ever got properly falling-down-drunk. He wonders what Merlin did all those other times, how he gets through. How many deaths weigh on him? How many faces rise up out of his dreams, demanding vengeance?

If Gwaine had words of comfort to offer he would give them freely, but he has nothing. Sometimes he thinks that as a knight, he has just as little or even less to give than when he was his own man. He hopes that somehow, his presence and his quiet and his lack of judgment might be enough.

"And I probably made hundreds more men afraid of me," Merlin goes on bitterly.

"I'd say more in awe," Gwaine tries.

"Same thing, isn't it?" Merlin asks.

"Those of us that know you – " Gwaine starts.

"I know," Merlin says, waving a hand as if to scatter his previous words. "I know. Ignore me, I'm being stupid."

"You're not being stupid," Gwaine says firmly. "It's – it's not an easy thing, to kill. It probably shouldn't be."

Merlin nods in gloomy agreement and he says, "I just – I just feel... _awful_."

"There was a boy today," Gwaine tells him, because he knows, he _does_ , and he needs to say it, for his own sake as well as Merlin's. "Barely looked old enough to be away from his mother." The words are bitter in his mouth and Merlin touches his hand.

"I thought it would be – when we were planning it, I mean I knew it was real men we were talking about but – "

"It never feels real until it's happened," Gwaine says.

Merlin nods miserably. "I don't blame Arthur," he says suddenly, as though it's very important Gwaine should know that. "He's just...being a good leader, and anyway, he was born to this." Merlin says it as though it should somehow make him feel better.

"You weren't," Gwaine says, and pretends not to notice the few stray tears that leak out, or the way Merlin swipes at them irritably away with his sleeve.

"You know I'm here for you, don't you?" Gwaine asks gently. "Anything you need that's in my power to give. Or, you know, steal and then give."

Merlin laughs in spite of himself and nudges Gwaine's shoulder with his own, staring out over the water again.

"I – " he says a bit later. "I could use – "

"Yes?"

"Hug?" Merlin requests, and Gwaine holds his arms out gladly. Merlin's grip on him is fierce and he shivers a couple of times before he gives one big sigh and relaxes against Gwaine. Gwaine curls his arms around Merlin, feels like he's not just holding the man, he's holding him together.

They sit like that for a long time. Gwaine listens to the soft splashes as fish disturb the water, focuses on the feeling of Merlin's heart beating against him, the soft rush of his breath. Merlin would never be content to sit back in safety while his friends are in danger, but Gwaine wishes more than anything else that he could keep Merlin from all of this. He closes his eyes tightly and presses his face to Merlin's hair, not quite a kiss.

After a while Merlin straightens up. Before he can move too far away Gwaine catches Merlin's face between his hands and looks at him carefully. His thumbs wipe away the last traces of tears and he wishes he could soothe other hurts away so easily. Merlin gives him a smile, not bright, but not that achingly false look from earlier either. He lets Merlin go and they settle side by side again, closer than before.

Before the silence can stretch too long Gwaine asks, "Can I tell you something?"

Merlin looks surprised. "Gwaine. Of course. Anything, you know that."

 _Now or never_ , Gwaine tells himself and he reaches out carefully, setting his hand on top of Merlin's and threading their fingers together. "When I first met you, I had no idea about the magic, no idea you were the crown prince's servant. And I thought you were the most – most _interesting_ person I'd met in years. I still feel that way."

Merlin looks embarrassed, protests, " _Gwaine_..."

"I do," Gwaine insists, squeezing Merlin's hand. "And I couldn't care less what skills you have, or in whose service you use them. I just – love you. Because you are worth loving."

For an awful moment he thinks Merlin's going to cry. Instead he turns his hand under Gwaine's, holding it properly. "You're mad," he says. "You're wonderful."

"Well, honestly. Make your mind up," Gwaine jokes.

Merlin laughs around a shaky breath. "You, my friend, are definitely both."

Then Merlin moves, and his lips are soft and dry where they press to the corner of Gwaine's mouth. Gwaine turns his head just a fraction, just enough to turn it from a touch to a kiss. Gwaine has imagined it all, because Merlin is beautiful and Gwaine is only human. Somehow this is perfect, though. There will be a time for passion and laughter and all the joys of finding someone to share life's pleasures with. But right now what there is is exactly what they need – comfort and a tremblingly chaste kiss, like they're being very, very careful with each other.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Off The Hook](https://archiveofourown.org/works/374891) by [growlery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery)




End file.
